How to Court a Self-Proclaimed Heterosexual in Just 30 Days
by Kariza Elquen
Summary: Dave Strider gives us all a lesson in how to properly woo your stubbornly straight best friend. Characters and cover photo are not mine (cover photo credited to Tumblr user s4nsaka). Rated K for lack of violence, death, and/or sexual relations. Thirty short chapters of fluff.
1. Day 1 - Roses

"_Initiating Stage 1: Confusion,"_ you scrawl in lazy manuscript across the first page of your pocket notebook. This is sure to be an interesting procedure, since he is, after all, your best friend, and you will be taking copious notes. You screw up your eyes in an effort to make out the light graphite scratches on the page. Despite years of practice wearing your shades in altogether unnecessary circumstances, it never stopped being difficult. You fight the urge to remove them for a few moments. Although that is not for a different place or purpose, it is for another day.

You tuck your notebook and pencil back into your cargo shorts and, hands now free, retrieve the bouquet from its tenuous place clenched between your knees. Turning slowly toward the house, you take your first hesitant steps up the driveway. You've walked this pavement innumerous times, yet somehow, this morning, the action seems exponentially more monumental than the rest. Then again, why shouldn't it be?

Taking a sharp left onto the front walk, and then a quick right onto the steps, you move with ease, your lanky legs stretching out in front of you. Now standing on the front stoop, you lift a shaky finger to the doorbell. The only thought that prevents you from turning tail and abandoning the mission completely is, "It's now or never." And it's true. You've been planning this for months. Years, even. It would be a shame to back out now.

The pleasant ringing tones echo inside the house and reach your ears, muffled by the door. After a few agonizing moments, your shorter friend appears, grinning out at you from between the blinds. You shift the flowers behind your back. Another few agonizing seconds, and the knob shifts and turns, opening the door back toward him. He runs a hand through his messy, raven-black hair, which rustles familiarly as it rearranges itself. "Hey, Dave," he greets you, eyeing the something concealed behind you. "What's up?"

Deep breath in. Slow breath out. And then, in one swift motion, you bring the bouquet forward, and present him with a dozen red roses, perfectly bloomed. "I love you, John Egbert."

There is a moment of absolute silence. Your ears tune out the breeze, the birds, the leaves on the trees, all in an effort to hear his quiet, strained reply as he reaches out doubtfully and takes the bouquet from your grasp. He looks down at the blossoms, and then up at you. "Dave, we've…we've been over this. I'm not a homosexual."

"I know."

John stares at you, stunned, his piercing blue eyes scrutinizing you through his clear, rectangular frames. He clears his throat. "Well. I'm going to go…um, put these in a vase." You love the way he says vase. Not _vayse_, but _vaws_. With a soft A.

You nod slowly, and he disappears as the door's lock slides into place with a decisive click. Some would view this as failure. But you are Dave Strider, and you have twenty-nine more days to go. _"April 1__st__,"_ you record in your notebook. _"Day One out of Thirty."_


	2. Day 2 - Chocolate

In premeditated thought, you have predicted the course of John's emotions over the course of the month, and assigned each of the six five-day periods a stage. Currently, it is April 2nd, and Day Two of the first stage, Confusion. You wonder if you calculated correctly. You spent quite a long time fussing over this process, because it has transformed into not only a courtship, but a scientific study. Perhaps you will publish your results.

Mounting the front steps for the second day in a row, you lean forward slightly as you press your finger into the little circular button. You hear a surprised shout from inside the house, and chuckle. You'd made bets with Bro that he wouldn't have suspected you to return. When you get back to the apartment, Bro owes you five bucks.

The door opens cautiously, and John peeks out at you from behind the doorframe. "Hi, Dave," he says carefully, and you hand him the box of homemade gourmet chocolates that you labored over for hours yesterday afternoon.

"John Egbert, I love you."

He pauses, looking at the box curiously. "I'm still not a homosexual," he mutters after a moment.

"I know." John just stands stock-still, one arm remaining behind the door and resting on the knob inside of the house, and the other hanging loosely at his side. "Just take the box already," you groan after a sufficiently awkward pause. At your prompt, he reaches forward with his unoccupied hand and plucks it from your fingers as if handling an explosive.

"Thanks…I guess," he says, barely meeting your gaze, and closes the door quickly in your face. You hear a light thump inside of the house as he drops the box on the sofa, and then heavy footfalls as he dashes up the stairs. "Daaaaaad!" he calls adorably as you turn away and start back down the steps. "Dave keeps giving me things and I don't know what to dooooo!" You chuckle. All these years, you never bothered to let him know that his door wasn't soundproof.


	3. Day 3 - Memories

**Author's Note: Hi, everyone! As you might have guessed, I gave up on my one-shot brigade. I'm still available for requests (one-word prompts, even), but I'm going to be devoting my time to this multi-chapter shindig for a while. Enjoy! (And if you have any ideas for Dave's gifts to John, please let me know! I need, like, 25 more).**

You are especially proud of this project. It took lots of time, which is something of a commodity as a senior in high school. A few months ago, you had begun digging through some of your old photography things, and had found a bunch of well-preserved negatives from when you were younger and still really interested in photography. Many of these were snapshots of you and John from middle school – at the park, on the playground, in the café, and more. So you hit the dark room for the first time in ages and developed photo after photo until you had dozens of perfectly printed images.

In the end, you had purchased an old-fashioned scrapbook from the thrift store downtown that you and John used to love, dated and titled each piece, and slid them between the thin, plastic leaflets. Every single page displayed two photos.

Now, you hold in your hands the fruits of your labors, bound in a hardcover album. You are reminded of your hours of work and sigh inwardly at the thought. Crossing your fingers against the back cover as you forgo the sidewalk and tramp across the front lawn, you hope it was all worth it.

Today is Monday, so unlike the two week-end days preceding it, you had needed to time your arrival carefully. After school, you had raced home to dump your backpack in your room, grab the scrapbook, and make sure everything was in order. Then you had grabbed a chilly apple juice from the fridge and hit the road, pedaling your ancient red bicycle across the town at top speed. It was an antique old thing, that relic of a bicycle, paint chipped and peeling away, pedals too close to your body. You had long since outgrown it, and your lanky legs felt scrunched up against your body when you rode. But the drink holder for your apple juice had remained intact, and that was the important thing anyway.

The doorbell's hollow yet cheerful echo reverberates through the house, and your ears pick up on it more than usual due to the living room window that has been cracked to let in the refreshing spring air. Thirty seconds later, the door opens, and you and John go through the dialogue to a script that is becoming nothing short of a routine.

"John Egbert, I love you," you quote, same as the two days preceding it. And yet, you notice that your voice holds no less passion than the first time you uttered it.

"I'm not a homosexual," John intones warily as he takes the book from you.

"I know."

When the door closes, you sit on the stoop, flip open your notebook, and add to your record. You're not sure what to list the gift as. _"Scrapbook"_ or _"photographs"_ are both accurate and straightforward, but you know that pictures are more than that. They are the shadows of the past. They are the remnants of memories. They are proof that the old times we spent together live on.

In the end, you settle for a word, and scribble it down after the phrase, _"Day 3."_


	4. Day 4 - Sick Beats Yo

It's Tuesday afternoon, and you hold, balanced between your fingertips, another great work of art. It looks unassuming on the outside: a simple, silver CD with the words, _"Day 4 – Sick Beats Yo,"_ written in black Sharpie across the surface. But you have burned it with over fifty audio tracks, some of them raps, but most of them mash-ups, remixes, and turntable recordings. And you made every single one.

You are almost blown away; your genius is so stunning. These are the indeed the sickest of beats, the most deliriously ill biznasty. Like, damn. You just know John will love the CD. Eventually. Possibly ironically, but even so, at least as much as those terrible movies he obsesses over. Gog, you seriously hate those things, but you watch them anyway because it means hanging out with him.

John really is adorable when you watch those movies with him. He likes them completely and entirely, no irony involved whatsoever, which is cute in a geeky sort of way. His face tends to light up throughout the whole film, and when his favorite scenes come around, he'll poke you in the arm excitedly and point them out, eyes not leaving the screen. He also has a habit of pulling his knees to his chest and resting his feet on the couch in front of him, so his body is held in an upright fetal position for the most exciting or scary parts of the movies. Wrapping his arms around his legs and hugging them tightly, he'll rest his chin on the top of his kneecaps and watch, entranced. And you'll watch him, entranced, as the TV highlights his black hair with blues, reds, yellows, and greens.

When he answers the door today, his smile seems forced, mechanical. After blinking at you, silently, for a moment, he hitches the left corner of his mouth up, and then the right, as if remembering to order the muscles to smile at different time. The effect is robotic and lifeless, as if the sides of his smile were the arms of a marionette, being jerked up one at a time by the puppeteer.

You give him the disk, adding, "I love you, John Egbert," as you shove your hands into your pockets.

"I'm still not a homosexual," he mumbles, irritated slightly.

"I know." Pause. "Ya know, a thank-you might be in order, at some moment in time." But he seems unable to give you one. So you free your hands from their fabric prisons and throw them into the air. "Nevermind. Unnecessary anyway."

"Thanks," John mutters belatedly, and closes the door slowly, inches from your nose.


	5. Day 5 - Illustrations

**Author's Note: Hey, guys. Just wanted to add a disclaimer: what Dave is currently doing to John is considered harassment, and, if continued, stalking. In my story (as it is just that: a story), it is inevitably bound to work. But if you do this in the real world, you will never win the object of your affections, and you'll probably get a restraining order. And make someone's life that much more difficult. So don't do it. That said, thank you so much for all the heartwarming comments. They make me squee a lotta bit. Enjoy the extra-long chapter to ease the pains of your extra-long wait.**

You have fallen into a distinct pattern. When the final bell rings at school, you rush home, grab your newest creation, and bolt out the door, pedaling furiously Egbert-ward. Today is Wednesday, and the third time you have been through this sequence. As you snatch a black, leather-bound sketchbook from its place resting on your bed, you spin around at the sound of a cleared throat. Bro leans against the doorframe, casually inspecting the blade of one of his more shitty katanas.

Groaning, you try to push past him into the kitchen, but he is blocking the exit of your room. "Bro, I don't have time to strife right now. I have to _go_," you say firmly, trying to shove him out of the way. He simply braces a muscular arm against the opposite side of the frame and points with the sword toward your bed.

"Sit," he demands. "We need to talk." With resentment, you turn back and position yourself on the mattress, clutching the sketchbook to your chest. He sits down next to you, a welcome change. Usually when you have your "talks," he stands over you menacingly. "So, little bro," he begins, laying the katana across your pillow. "What's up with all this running about after school?"

You clench your teeth. "I have deliveries to make," you explain in a huff, looking away from him and inspecting the complex mechanisms of your turntables with feigned interest. "It's not important, and it's certainly none of your business." Bro's fingers dance over the handle of his katana before gripping it and raising it to your face, pressing the flat side of the blade against your cheek to turn your gaze back toward him.

"It's Egbert, isn't it?" he asks you, and from the tone of his voice, you would be fooling no one if you denied it. So you keep your mouth shut and say nothing. He shakes his head, chuckling, and looks at you skeptically. "Do you love him?"

You run the tip of your tongue along your teeth. You do not doubt the truth, only whether or not you should admit it to your brother. But he is boring holes in your skull from behind his ridiculously pointy shades, so you nod your head slowly. He seems satisfied, haughty, even. He places the sword back on the bed and crosses his arms.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I thought I was in love?" he asks. You give him an exasperated look. Obviously he hasn't. He runs a hand through his excessively gelled hair and pauses for dramatic effect. You are about to get up and leave when he speaks again. "His name was Jake."

Hands still clenched around the cover of the sketchbook, you do a double-take. "He?"

Bro cracks his knuckles. "Don't interrupt when your bro is telling a story." You roll your eyes. "And yes, he. His name was Jake and he…was absolutely perfect in every way. And I thought I was in love with him."

You narrow your eyes at the taller blond. "_Were _you in love with him?" There is a long, deadly silence as you realize your mistake. Bro freezes, staring daggers into your skull. After a few strained moments, he lifts himself to his feet and takes his katana by the blade. It's shitty enough that it doesn't even make a cut. He turns and walks from the room. As he reaches the doorway, he pauses, and looks back over his shoulder at you.

"Yes," he says tersely and with resignation. "Go about your business," he adds offhandedly, before stepping into the hallway and clipping the tip of his shades on the doorframe. You hear a muffled, "shit," as he makes his way into the kitchen. Smiling down at the object in your hands, you stand, and rush out of the apartment to get your bicycle.

When you screech to a halt at the curb, you see the door opening out of the corner of your eye. John has been expecting you. Dismounting your bicycle is a clumsier process than usual with his sharp eyes scrutinizing your back. You approach the house awkwardly, not sure whether to attempt eye contact or not. Reaching the front step, you realize it would have been futile anyway, as he has redirected his attention to the tips of his sneakers.

You hold out the book toward him. He makes no move to take it, so you reach down with your left hand toward his right and grip it. His soft skin against yours is tantalizing, but you force yourself to pull his hand up, wrap his fingers around the book, and, excruciatingly, let go. Curious, he pulls back the cover to reveal the first page, with the words, "_John Egbert, I love you_," written in painstakingly neat cursive scrawled across the parchment. A turn of that page, accompanied by the sound of rustling paper, and you are looking at an upside-down version of a sketch of John at the park. "I'm not a homosexual," John whispers intermittently as he turns page after page, his cheeks growing redder and redder. Some of these drawings are of you and him together, and not all of them are entirely PG. You considered taking them out, but you felt it was somehow more authentic just to give him the whole, unabridged documentary of your affections.

After glancing at least once at everything, John closes the book with a hollow _whoosh_ of air, and holds it by the binding at his side. He raises his eyes to you. "Dave," he begins quietly. "I think it would be best if you didn't come by here anymore. For the time being, at least. Or, well, not like this. Every day. With…gifts." You start to protest, you try to say something back, but the words of your explanation catch in your throat. And before you can force them out, only the chipped paint of the front door is staring back at you.


	6. Day 6 - Poster

Your ears fill with the complaints of rusty gears as you screech to a halt at the edge of the curb. Planting the soles of your converse firmly on the pavement, you pause to catch your breath. You check to make sure that a certain poster canister is still nestled snugly in your messenger bag. It is, so you extract it, hang the bag's strap from the handlebar of your bike, and swing yourself off.

According to your calculations, since today is Day Six, you should be initiating Stage Two, Annoyance. So it is with hesitation that you make your way to the front porch and ring the doorbell.

For the first time in a while, it is Mr. Egbert who answers the front door. "Dave," he grunts, looking down at you in displeasure. You get the feeling that John has informed him in detail of the situation. "It's…nice to see you." He makes no move to offer to call his son.

"You too, sir," you smile forcibly. After a few moments, you add, "Is John home?" The man only nods and moves back into the house. A few strained minutes later, a boy dressed in blue replaces his father's form in the doorway. All is silent, except for the static-y sound of dry leaves rustling across the sidewalk.

"Hi, Dave," John says, and for a moment it's just like the old days, and you wonder why you ruined it with all this romance business in the first place. But then his eyes flick down to the object in your hands, and you hold it out to him. You don't say anything, as it seems somehow inappropriate regarding the situation to profess your love for him (for the sixth time in one week). And besides, you aren't really up to hearing him tell you that he's not a homosexual (again, for the sixth time in one week). So you leave both numbers at five and let him make the next move.

Quietly, his hands clamp around the cardboard container. Looking down and biting his lip, he mutters, "I thought I told you to stop doing this." Hesitantly, you reach forward, and tilt his head up at his chin. He doesn't move away, but he still refuses to look at you.

"I can't," you explain, before withdrawing your hand. He nods like he understands, even though he can't possibly. You take a few steps backwards as the door closes. Once it does, you retreat to a spot in the front yard from which you can see through his bedroom window. Watching him enter his room, you cringe as he flings the poster angrily at the wall. Then his head disappears from view as he collapses on the floor. You feel your heart do the same.


	7. Day 7 - Smuppet

**Author's Note: Sorry for the long breaks recently, guys! Finals are coming up and shit's going down. Please give me ideas for more gifts for Dave to give John, and also maybe a one-shot idea for me to pursue after or during this. As always, thanks! 3**

It's been exactly a week since you began this ridiculous charade, and you're starting to regret it deeply. John avoids you at school, opting instead to hang out with Jade and Rose and, most painfully, Vriska. It's as if he knows exactly how to best plunge a myriad of splinters into your heart. Like he just walks around with a quiver of arrows strapped to his back and pulls back the string of his bow every time he passes you wordlessly in the hallway.

"Hm, how should I maim Dave today?" he laughs manically as he draws an arrow in your mind's eye. "Ah, ignoring him, yes, good!" _Zing! _"Let's see…spending an inordinate amount of time with Vriska!" _Zing!_

You're about sick of it.

You seriously consider giving up. Like, whoever can resist a messy-haired Dave Strider in dark red skinny jeans trying to woo them from their front porch must mean business. But another part of you hopes it's only a matter of time, so you persist.

After the final bell rings, you spot John packing up at his locker. He makes eye contact with you for approximately .5 seconds before slamming the metal door shut and disappearing into the crowd. _Zing!_ You cringe, and then sigh audibly as Rose approaches you from behind.

"You know, Dave, maybe you should just –" she begins as you wheel around.

"I know!" you practically shout over the after-school din. "I know. You think I don't?" Turning back around after a reflective pause, you catch a final glimpse of dark hair, just before it vanishes around the corner. You watch the students milling around for a bit, and by the time you look back for Rose, she and Kanaya are already heading down the hall in the other direction. Letting out another long puff of air, you retrieve your things from your locker, and prepare for the endless bike ride home.

Today, a small, blue smuppet waits patiently on your bed. Dumping your backpack on the carpet, you snatch it up and trek begrudgingly back out the front door. Mounting your bike and fitting your cargo carefully into the bag dangling from your handlebars, you take off.

Arriving at John's house has become a chore. The second you get off of your bike, the door opens, with an irate Egbert standing in the threshold. Before you even step foot on the front porch, he's yelling. "I thought I told you to stop it!" he complains loudly.

Eyes downcast, you thrust the puppet into his reluctant hands and turn tail muttering, "I love you, John Egbert," pointlessly under your breath. As if he could hear you. As if he would want to, even if he could.


	8. Day 8 - Aviators

You know he'll like it. Well, rather, you think he'll like it. You seem to know him less and less these days. You suppose that's to be expected. Occupational hazard. In this case, the occupation being…recklessly flirting with your lifelong best friend? And you guess that's where the metaphor falls apart.

They aren't authentic, like those brilliant ones he gave you lo those many years ago, and that you still wear, but they're in good condition. So it is with care that you tuck them into your pocket and make the daily trek to his house.

He isn't waiting for you today. You didn't really expect it, since you're not coming from school. You slept fitfully last night, and once you woke up, you didn't quite have the motivation to drag your sorry ass out of bed. Eventually your bro did it for you, and it is about one o' clock on Saturday afternoon as you arrive in front of the familiar white house. Your stomach growls in complaint. How could you have forgotten to eat anything before you left? You're not thinking straight these days.

The doorbell chimes a bit too loudly for your ears, which haven't heard so much as a word all day. After a few moments, you hear footsteps pounding loudly down the stairs, and the door swings open. John is still in his pajamas, his hair a mess and glasses missing from his face. You smirk from behind your shades. How cute.

"It's you," he says, not at all pleased. He squints at you. You're not used to seeing him without that smudged glass covering his eyes, and it makes your stomach do an acrobatic fucking pirouette. Off the handle, of course. "I thought maybe you'd given up. Or one week was the plan."

You slip a pair of aviators with deep blue frames from your pocket and slide them onto his bare face. His eyebrows knit together and he yanks them off. You cringe. "Careful," you warn him. "Those are nice ones." He sighs is resignation.

"Look," he articulates bluntly, flipping the sides of the glasses into the down position with his two pointer fingers. "How much longer is this going to go on?"

You jump backwards off the step. "That, my friend, is a secret." Giving him a little playful salute, you turn and stride back to your bike. When you pedal off, he's still in sight, leaning against the doorframe and inspecting the sunglasses with a grimace.


	9. Day 9 - Breakfast in Bed

The next morning you wake with the sun. Golden rays slant through the dusty windowpanes and cast a warm glow about your room as you stretch and throw back the covers. Normally, in your book, Sunday isn't a day to get much of anything done, besides for the last-minute homework rush at 11:00 PM. _But today will be different_, you think as you throw on a red tank top and jeans. _Today will be different_.

You're pretty sure what you're planning is an unprecedented level of creepy, but you figure John is annoyed enough as it is. Might as well go all out.

The kitchen is bright and spotless. Bro went on one of his rare cleaning sprees last night, polishing the place from top to bottom. You can hear him snoring in the next room over as you enter the pristine room, which shines from the sunlight reflecting off the glossy white tiles. The windows in the kitchen are big and clear. Overall, this room is quite to contrast to your own.

You set to work. This is by no means one of your many talents, but you try your best anyway. When you're done, the kitchen is a bit of a mess. You feel bad about that, for Bro's sake, so you try to tidy up a bit before you pack everything carefully into your backpack and step outside.

This April has been a nice one so far. Spring is well on its way, with colorful daffodils and geraniums blooming in the mulch along the sidewalks. You untether your bike from the metal arch near your apartment complex and mount it, cautious to keep your backpack from shifting from side to side as you pedal off. You feel the muscles in your calves work to pump the pedals, and the light breeze dusting against your face. Its days like these that keep you moving.

But in the end, the shitty old brakes on your bike fail, and you find yourself sailing past your destination before you have the chance to slow to a stop. When you are able to hop off of your bike, you walk it back half a block, grumbling discontentedly all the way. The doorbell echoes piercingly down the deserted street, and it is Mr. Egbert who comes to the door. He regards you with distaste.

"John is sleeping," he explains gruffly, attempting to seal the barrier between you and his house. You stick a sneaker in the doorway and wince when your foot is caught against the closing door.

"Could I come in, please?" The man stares down at you for a moment before ushering you inside, muttering under his breath.

You could find your way up to John's room blindfolded, even though it's been a while since you've been inside his house. After nimbly taking the stairs two at a time, you knock softly on his bedroom door and push it soundlessly open.

His room is the same as you remember it. Ghost bed sheets, desk against the right wall, posters plastered everywhere, ridiculous magician's chest fitted into a corner. You smile and get to work, sliding your backpack off of your shoulders and onto the floor with a light _thud_. John stirs in his sleep, rolling over and letting a barely audible sigh escape from between his lips.

He looks adorable.

Shaking your head, you remove a tray and a plate from your bag, and set them on the desk. You load the plate with still-warm pancakes from a plastic Tupperware container, and coat them with syrup from a squeeze bottle that you're lucky didn't leak all over the inside of your backpack. _And now, for the finishing touch_, you think as you withdraw an apple juice box and place it next to the plate on the tray with a flourish.

You leave the tray and your backpack on the desk and approach John's bed quietly. Sitting on the edge of it, you reach a hand forward and stroke his hair away from his face. You bite your lip in an effort not to lean down and kiss him awake. That would be weird. Divine, but weird.

And anyway, John's eyelids are already fluttering open. The moment he resisters your presence, he gives a yelp and scrambles for something on his bedside table. Without a warning, your eyes begin to sting in pain, and your let out a shout as you fall back onto the floor, coughing and sputtering. When the air clears, John is kneeling on the edge of his mattress, peering down at you.

"Smoke pellets," he offers apologetically, and then frowns. "Dave, I thought you were a burglar! How did you get in my house?"

"Front door," you grunt, pushing yourself up. He gives you a look. "Ugh, fine, your dad let me in." You stand, and turn to walk back to the desk, which fortunately had been spared from the blast radius of the smoke pellets. "Good-looking man," you add, picking up the tray. "I can see where you get it from." You consider giving him a wink upon turning around, but decide against it. He's already inspecting the contents of the tray suspiciously.

"What's that?" he asks as you return to him. You set down the tray on his now-vacant bedside table and perch on the edge of the bed. He swings his legs off and plants his feet on the carpet, so you are sitting side-by-side. It might be the closest you've been to him in nine days.

"Breakfast in bed," you say, gesturing for him to take the tray, which he does, setting it in his lap and eyeing the pancakes with disbelief. He lets out a puff of air and turns to you, looking you in the face with obvious difficulty.

"Dave," he begins. "You've really got to stop doing this. It's getting on my nerves, and it's just completely inappropriate. And I don't like it. Okay?" You ignore his pleas and tap the tray with one finger.

"Just eat the pancakes."

"There's no fork."

_Shit._


	10. Day 10 - Fork

**Author's Note: I'M A LAZY PIECE OF SHIT I'M SORRY.**

You see him in the hallway the next day, and sprint after him, despite the heavy books in your backpack slamming methodically into your spine. He spots you and attempts to slip into the raging before-class swarm of students, but you lunge after him and spin him around by his shoulder. Cringing away from your touch, he backs into a less crowded corridor as you approach him, triumphantly brandishing a single plastic fork. You know you should have waited until this afternoon, but after your colossal fuckup yesterday, you can't bring yourself to. It's also a shitty gift, you know that, too. But it'll be funny, and John likes funny.

Although right now he isn't smiling.

As the pair of you proceeds further down the hallway, the sound echoing through the school from the front entrance dies down, and you're walking side by side. Just like old times. You half expect him to crack a joke, or ask you about your night. But instead, when you hand him the flimsy utensil with a cheeky grin, he takes it from you and lets it fall between his fingers to the multi-colored carpet.

You look over your shoulder and watch the plastic cutlery seemingly drift into the distance as you continue down the hall, rows of lockers bordering you on the left and floor-to-ceiling windows. When you glance back at John, he is staring stonily forward, gaze fixated on the junction at the end of the corridor.

"Dave," he begins slowly. "I better not see you at my house again. Okay?" There is warning in his voice, and a promise. You remember that today marks the last day of the Annoyance Stage, according to your calculations, at least. You are not looking forward to what comes next.

"_Okay?"_ he repeats, finally turning his head. You want to protest, but he has already quickened his pace and turned left toward his first-period classroom as you reach the end of the hall. Every cell in your body screams for you to run after him, but what would that accomplish? So instead, you turn around in a daze and head back in the direction of your class. The bell rings, and the school falls silent. When you've almost reached the front entrance, there's a deafening crunch which penetrates the stillness, and your right shoe falls unevenly on the old carpet. You look down and raise your foot, to find the insubstantial plastic fork shattered underneath your weight.


	11. Day 11 - Peck

**Author's Note: Hey, guys. After chapter 12, I won't be updating for quite a while, probably until August. I'm going to be away a lot, and just won't have the time. See ya then! Much love! 3**

You pester him relentlessly.

_TG: I'm sorry._

You can't keep yourself from spending nearly every waking moment checking your computer or your phone.

_TG: I'm so sorry._

You almost give up.

_TG: John?_

But you don't.

Tuesday after school, as so many days before, you are at his house. Right on time, predictably, like the chiming of a grandfather clock. You carry nothing with you. No bag, no substantial present, nothing hidden in your pockets, or, as John would say, up your sleeve. You feel light as air, almost like you might float away. But not from the lack of objects holding you down, but rather, the presence of things that urge you to let go. You are so, so nervous, and it's making you a bit lightheaded and nauseous.

The doorbell rings. No answer.

It rings again. Nothing.

_Third time's the charm_, you pray, though you are not a religious person. But you may have just been converted because, glory of God, there John stands before you, telling you off. _Of course_, you remember. Day Eleven is the beginning of Stage Three, your personal least favorite: complete and total Rejection. Just imagining the word stings, like the point of the swooping J is tipped with a poison arrow, piercing the fleshy parts of your chest between your rib bones and spreading toxic chemicals through your body.

You can't really hear John. You can't really hear anything. The world seems muted, like you are experiencing it through a particularly fluffy pair of earmuffs. Hoping for the best but fearing the worst, you suck in a deep breath of air, lean forward and –

You kiss him.

Right on the lips.

It only lasts a moment, before he places both hands on your chest to push you away, but you kissed him.

Your ecstatic celebration, however, is short-lived. You swallow, and as if unplugging your ears, the sound rushes back into them. He is practically screaming, yelling about this and that and something about trust, before the flat surface of the door is the only face you can see. And you expect it will be for a while.

You spend the next few minutes becoming especially acquainted with that door, partly for good measure, and partly because you don't really have the strength to walk away anyhow.


	12. Day 12 - Jack Shit

The next day, no matter how many times you knock, the door just won't open.


	13. Day 13 - Birthday Wishes

**AN: I'm on vacation, but the fanfic must go on! So I made it happen. Expect another update in about two weeks when I return. I've also been working on a new multi-chapter shindig and a new oneshot (by request), so get excited! 3**

April thirteenth has always been your favorite day. In past years, John would invite you, Rose, and Jade over for a birthday sleepover bash, no matter the day of the week. It doesn't occur to you until the day before, that this time around, you might not be on the invite list. As it is, you're not. Realizing this, you depart for school Thursday morning in a cloud of embarrassment, and try to ignore the sympathetic glances that Rose and Jade shoot you in the hallway.

By the time the final bell rings, you are almost too depressed to slide out of your cramped seat and trudge down the corridor to your locker. Two girls are waiting there for you, leaning their shoulders against the thin metal doors. As you approach, the taller of the two awkwardly adjusts the books she cradles in the crook of her arm.

''Hey, Rose, Jade,'' you croak, your throat dry. You swallow uncomfortably. ''What's up?'' The girl with the books opens her mouth to speak just as the other pulls her back with a timid hand the other's forearm, and steps forward herself. You give a half-assed grin. Everyone knows that Rose is never tactful.

Jade smiles sadly at you before speaking. ''We were just wondering,'' she begins slowly, stuffing her perfectly manicured hands into the pockets of her cargo pants. Jade has always been equal parts elegant and practical. ''W-would you mind if…if Rose and I still went over to John's tonight?''

You force an unaffected tone into your voice as Kanaya appears out of thin air, as her her custom, and takes Rose's hand, as is also her custom. ''Sure, no problem.'' The girls nod and begin to drift away.

''See ya, Dave,'' Rose calls, smiling at Kanaya. Her words are for you, but her eyes are only ever for her girlfriend. She almost never leaves Kanaya's side, but John's birthday bash has only ever been for his closest friends. A group which didn't seem to include you anymore.

Berating yourself as you open your locker, you think back on all your memories with John, Rose, and Jade. You've known them since – well, since forever. _Why did I have to push them away?_ you groan inwardly, stuffing your things into the small space and closing the door quickly to avoid an avalanche. _It'll all be worth it in the end if I can be with John,_ you assure yourself as you push through the pulsing crowd and out into the humid April air.

That _if _hangs over your head for the rest of the day.

When you finally get home and collapse onto the couch, you refuse to move for hours, even when Bro announces that it's spaghetti for dinner. You just pull a blanket up to your nose and fry your brain in front of the television. Because it's easy for you, you spend a little time on your homework, but not enough to finish. You're graduating in a month and a half anyway. Who gives a fuck? Certainly not your other friends. You can guarantee they won't get a speck of work done tonight. Oh no, they'll be too busy partying their plush rumps off.

You frown down at the remote control in your hand, envy bubbling up inside your stomach. Eventually it rises up your throat and spills out from between your lips in the form of the words, ''I'm going for a ride.''

Bro looks in from the kitchen. ''To John's house?'' he smirks, wiping his hands on a towel and tossing it in your direction. You click off the TV, stand, and let the damp cloth drape itself over the back of the sofa.

''No, just out,'' you mumble, grabbing your jacket and striding out the door into the night.

''Hey, move the towel, it'll start to – '' Bro calls after you, which doesn't deter you in the least from slamming the door. You mount your bicycle and pedal away in a quiet rage, focusing only on taking deep breaths of the sharp air and pumping your legs in a calming rhythm. After ten minutes of cooling your nerves, you coast to a halt and find yourself – where else? – on John's street.

It's almost midnight now, but still light pours onto the lawn from the living room window. You sigh and sit on the curb, removing your jacket, shoes, and socks and placing them by your bike. Your bare feet tingle in the crisp night air, causing you to scrunch up your toes. After a few minutes of sulking, you hear a shout from inside the house. Curious, you pad your way across the lawn, feeling the dewy grass underfoot. Peering in the window, you see your friends clustered together on the couch, video game controllers in hand. Jade has her head in John's lap, her curly dark hair spilling out onto the floor. A pang of jealously hits you in the gut.

Watching them laugh and shout together hurts more than anything, but it also gives you a new kind of determination to make everything turn out okay. You step away from the window, craning your neck to look up at the clear sky. The stars are bright and promising. Closing your eyes, you let your body fall back onto the lawn. The wet grass against your bare arms makes you shiver. You open your eyes again and scan the sky for shooting stars, but even your pathetic tale of heartbreak isn't _that_ cliché.

Instead, you try to appreciate the view you do have, and make a wish on the stars you can see.

_Happy 18__th__, John Egbert._

_I love you._


	14. Day 14 - Rhymes

**Author's Note: I fully accept my new title as Official Piece of Shit. I know I promised this chapter, like, two months ago. My excuses are school and laziness. I'll try to be more on top of things as I move forward. It won't happen, but I'll try. My motivation is that once I finish this, I have another multi-chapter shindig planned, so that'll be fun. Keep urging me along. Send me angry messages if you have to. They serve as effective incentives. That is all. **

By the time Friday rolls around, it's been a long week, to say the least. You're feeling sick after staying up late last night, so when your alarm clock goes off and you find yourself haphazardly strewn across your bed, you kick the irritating machine onto the floor and burrow back under the covers. About fifteen minutes later, Bro enters the room and crosses his arms, staring down at you in disgust. You open one eye only long enough to register his presence.

"Rough night, huh?" he asks in a deadpan tone. You grunt. "Told you," is his response. He gives you no further warning before gripping both of your wrists and pulling you unceremoniously from the mattress. Your legs plop onto the floor and drag behind you as he lugs you into the kitchen. You've still got one foot in the dream world, so your head lolls forward lazily as Bro shuffles his way into the tiled room, supporting your dead weight. When you reach the marble island, he drops your wrist, causing your elbows to crack against the hard tile. You inhale sharply and sit up too suddenly, causing your head to spin. Bro lifts from under your arms and hoists you into a chair. After very nearly faceplanting into a bowl of Cheerios he sets before you, you eat with slow, mechanical motions. When you finish, you push the meal aside and force yourself to stand and shamble into your bedroom. Bro sighs empathetically, moving to take your dishes.

You put minimal effort into getting dressed, hoping that if you can only survive today, the weekend will be relaxing. Shrugging on a grey hoodie, cargo shorts, and your backpack, you make sure to pack a notebook to doodle in during class. As you depart, you glance at the digital time display on your overturned alarm clock. It's no surprise that you're running rather late. Normally you would make some effort to pedal quicker than usual, but this morning, you can find neither the strength nor the initiative.

Life is a cloud of haze blowing slowly by until you reach your first period seat, which is located in the very back of your computer programming classroom. The class work is simple, and you speed through it, inspired by your interest in the topic. This leaves you time toward the end of class to flip open your notebook and grab and pen. An empty page begs for attention. Ink touches paper, and when you check the clock and five minutes have passed, your notebook contains a page and a half of new material. Smiling, you continue working until the bell rings obnoxiously.

Throughout the day, you add to your creations, making changes and drawing up new pieces. Lunch is spent in pursuit of this new project, as is the majority of last period. You leap from your seat and book it when you're dismissed from your final class. Feferi is chatting loudly with Eridan directly in front of your locker, so you mindlessly push him aside and fling open the metal door. There is the sound of Eridan spitting insults in your direction while Feferi laughs enthusiastically, but you're a man with a mission.

You decide to take a pit stop at home to drop off most of the stuff in your backpack. You then hop right back on your bicycle with only your notebook tucked into the messenger bag draped across the handlebars. Minutes later, you are screeching to a halt on the uneven pavement of John's street, grabbing the notebook, and vaulting onto the sidewalk. As you approach onto the lawn, you spy your friend through his window, which is propped open to accommodate the refreshing spring breeze. You bite your lip to hold back a grin. After a moment of contemplation, you search around on the ground for a coarse stone of a decent size. You weigh it in your hand, then lob it toward the window. It bounces off the upper portion of the glass that is lifted up over itself, making a nice, clean sound.

John spins, surprised, and steps to the window. As he bends at the waist and grips the windowsill to peer through the screen, you clear your throat. "A poem," you announce stridently, making sure that your voice carries. John raises the screen and leans his head curiously forward. Your fingers tap nervously on the back cover of the notebook. When you look down, you realize you haven't flipped to the right page yet. You hurry to do so, and then look anxiously back up at John to insure you still have his attention. One arm is crossed across the windowsill, while the other is propped up so he can rest his cheek on his palm. Your stomach feels like it's going to gnaw its way out of your abdomen. Nevertheless, you cough once more and begin to read him your poems.

There are 12 in all, each a different flavor from the next. The first is short and sweet, where the second is deep and meaningful. The third is fast-paced and full of expectation while the fourth reads like a bated breath. Around the sixth poem, after watching the whole affair blankly, John shuts the screen. When you begin the seventh, he closes the window. You know he can still hear you, so you step closer to the house and speak loudly and with purpose. Eventually you sense he has left his room. You keep reciting your work in the light, wistful April air, until you reach the very last line of the very last poem. He has not heard most of it, but that doesn't seem to much matter anymore.

When you mount your bicycle for the final time that day, you pedal with a certain anticipation for the future. It took you some time to regain your footing after last night's emotional stumble, but now you stand as tall and confident as you stood on Day 1.


	15. Day 15 - Apology

**Author's Note: I had a certain amount of incentive to start this chapter, thanks to you all. I have been threatened with "random-ass shitty messages" and been told that I might be "sued for damages" if I didn't update within a reasonable amount of time. I have been deemed an "amazing motherfucker," a "fuckass," and much more. I have also received a myriad of positive, encouraging messages (not to say that messages including the word "fuckass" cannot be positive or encouraging), and for that, I thank you. Here's a token of my gratitude. (ALSO GIVE ME MORE IDEAS FOR DAVE'S PRESENTS GAAAAHHH)**

You believe an apology is in order.

Yes, it's true. As much as you don't want to admit it. The next stage of your genius plan begins tomorrow, and you'd like to give John a reason to work with it. Unknowingly, of course. When Saturday morning comes, you throw on a loose tank top and jeans, leaving the apartment empty-handed. The brisk wind pulls the door shut loudly behind you. New green leaves are cruelly wrenched from their branches and go tumbling through the air. You step with some effort to your bicycle and mount it. It takes even more energy than usual to traverse the uphill portions of your route, but you grip the handlebars and lean into each turn of the pedals. Feeling the burning ache from the exertion and the abrasive gusts against your face makes you feel alive.

By the time you reach your destination, the wind has really picked up, and roars loudly in your ears. When you abandon your bicycle on the curb, you quickly jump the sidewalk and rush to the door, knocking furiously. You can barely hear the hollow sound of your own knuckles against the wood. After waiting impatiently, you knock again. Finally, the door opens, and for a moment you fear it will be wrenched from its hinges. A wide-eyed John looks up at you.

"Crazy weather, huh?" you chuckle, examining his surprised baby blues.

"What?" you see him mouth, flinching as a leaf clocks him in the side of the face.

"Crazy weather!" you shout. A moment of contemplation on John's part, and you are being pulled inside. The door shuts, and all at once the howl of the wind is shut out. It can be heard, muted, through the walls, but inside the house, it is quiet and still. John flattens his hair. He's wearing some pajama bottoms with little ghosts you got him a few years ago. You have to bite back a smirk.

"What?" John repeats, now that he can hear you. You are suddenly at a loss for words, having to swallow and crack your knuckles before you can speak. John drums his fingers on the doorknob, which he has yet to release. Somewhere in the house, an old grandfather clock chimes, sage and low.

"I wanted to apologize," you say, the words bubbling out from behind your lips. "I got so caught up in how I wanted to make you feel, that I didn't take into account what you were actually feeling. And I'm sorry." You pause. "And, I guess, if it would make you more comfortable, I –"

Your words are cut off when all 115 pounds of John Egbert hit you right in the gut. You blink, and find your nose buried in flyaway dark hair, and John's cheek pressed to your chest. Sighing contentedly, you draw your arms around him protectively. It takes a moment for the surprise to dull, but when it does, it is replaced with a warm, happy glow. John draws back, his fingers now curled against your waist.

"It's okay, Dave," he says quietly, looking up with a fresh-faced grin. He steps away, and you release him reluctantly. Your arms feel useless, now hanging at your sides. "I miss you, you know?" You nod lightly. "And I guess if you want our relationship to go in…a different direction – although I can't guarantee it will – I suppose I've got to let you try, right?"

Oh my fucking god.

This has got to be the best day of your life.

By the time you mount your bicycle again minutes later, the wind is at your back, and your grin stretches from one ear to the other. The forceful gusts push you forward, to the point that you barely even have to pedal as you coast effortlessly down the hill. Years of experience allow you to retain your balance as you slowly stretch your arms out to your sides and whoop and holler your way down the street.

John Egbert forgives you. And as far as you're concerned, that's all that matters.


	16. Day 16 - Puzzle

**Author's Note: For NaNoWriMo, my goal is not to write a novel, but instead, finish this shitshow (It's already the 10****th****, who am I kidding). That said…**

The next afternoon, you find yourself leisurely ambling into the kitchen around one o' clock, having arisen on your own accord. You reach up into a cabinet in order to grip the cool surface of a glass, reaching your arm high above your head. The sensation is so glorious that you find yourself setting the cup on the counter with a quiet _clink_ in order to stretch more thoroughly. After a moment of loosening your muscles and yawning profusely, you wrench open the refrigerator and pour yourself a midday glass of apple juice. You take it back into your room, setting it precariously on a bedpost in order to lift your prized possession from its place against your bookshelf: an old acoustic guitar. Every time you pick this thing up, you feel the need to dust it off, despite the fact that you keep it meticulously clean. It's in quite a state, polish chipping away from years of practice, street performances, and angry venting sessions. However, the tone of the instrument remains deep, soothing, and echoing, like a wise old creature with many secrets.

You arrange yourself on the mattress and begin to pluck some strings lightly, letting the soft sound disperse through the air, disappearing into the tinted light filtering through the curtains. Every once in a while, you rest the ancient instrument on your lap in order to raise the glass of apple juice to your lips. The neighborhood is still and peaceful this afternoon. No cars honking on their way down the street, no FedEx delivery man loudly delivering packages. It's quiet in your apartment, with only the sound of your strumming to assure you that someone hasn't pressed mute on the world's remote.

Letting your fingers drift over the strings is calming and invigorating at the same time. Your gaze floats around the room, resting on various objects. A pile of dirty laundry in the corner, photographs pasted haphazardly to the far wall, the vintage Rubik's cube on your soundboard. You stop strumming for a moment, inspecting it from a distance, then lay your guitar on the bed and cross to the cube. When you pick it up, you have to blow a little dust off of the yellow face. It's been ages since you last solved it. You're sure you've forgotten how. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and you toss the cube onto your mattress as you hurry to get dressed.

Fifteen minutes later, you arrive in front of John's house, tires screeching. You quickly step off the bike and onto the pavement, rushing up to the door with the colorful cube in your hand. After ringing the doorbell, you anxiously rotate a face, encouraged to discover that it still turns smoothly. When John opens the door, his smile is so radiant that you're glad for your shades. You pass him the cube, and he looks at you quizzically.

"A puzzle, just like me," you say, delivering your line effortlessly. Smirking, you hop off the stoop and stride back to your bike. You try not to look back as you pedal off, but you can see John in your periphery, leaning against the door frame and smiling like a doofus.


	17. Day 17 - Birthstone

**Author's Note: Thank you for all the reviews! They warm my cold, cold heart.**

You're almost amazed at how well the pieces of your plan are falling together. Originally, you did plan for Day 16 to commence Stage 4: Acceptance, but you didn't realize John would be quite so accepting. Yesterday's gift of the Rubik's cube was graciously received, and today is no different.

In fact, John meets you at your locker after school. When you close the door, there he is, smiling back at you widely. You blink in surprise from behind your shades, your hand instinctively flying to your pocket. Your fingers close protectively around the gift you have concealed for him there.

"Wanna walk back with me?" he asks slowly, feeling for a response. A little too quickly, you nod your head, hoisting your backpack over your shoulder and taking off. John chuckles and follows behind, taking two short steps to match each one of your long strides. When you reach the bike rack, your fingers fumble on the lock. Finally able to free your ride, you mount it and pedal slowly alongside John as he steps into the street.

At first, you fear that your conversation will be stiff, your questions forced. But you easily slip into the tempo established over years of friendship, effortlessly bantering back and forth. At one point, during a comfortable silence, John asks, "So, do you have anything for me today?"

"Patience," you drawl, smirking. John blushes. The rest of the walk passes quietly, with you weaving around John on your bike and him laughing periodically. When you reach his house, you slow to a stop and steady yourself with one red Converse flat against the pavement. John looks at you expectantly as you draw a smooth object out of your pocket.

"Dave, what – " he stutters, gaping at the gift as you slide it into his palm. You grin.

"Don't freak out, it's not diamond or anything," you explain, gripping the handlebars. "Crystal. Probably fake, but, it's – "

"My birthstone," John finishes for you, looking down at the heavy paperweight in his hands. It sparkles in the sunlight, reflecting colors into the air. John smiles up at you with eyes that outshine the crystal he holds. "I put up that poster you gave me a while back," he mentions offhandedly, after a significant pause. "The ConAir one. Is it really his signature at the bottom?"

"Nic Cage?" you ask, looking casually down the street like it's no big deal. "Yeah."

John beams. "You're the best, Dave. Thanks." He seems sincere as he envelops you in an awkward hug. You make an effort to steady yourself on the bicycle, grinning over his shoulder.

"I've been telling you that for years."


	18. Day 18 - Hat

**Author's Note: I'm trying to blaze through these chapters, but be patient with me. They're going to be a little short for a while, because nothing's really happening, but they'll be longer towards the end.**

You had it custom made, and you're very proud of it. It matches the PJ bottoms you gave him a few years back, the pogo ride in his backyard, and that one t-shirt he used to wear all the time as a kid (which is too small for him now, but you know for a fact he still has it squirreled away somewhere). You're not sure whether his obsession with little green ghosts is a Ghostbusters thing or a John thing, but either way it's adorable.

As you're getting dressed for the day, you make the executive decision to wear it to school. It rests snug and cozy on your head all day long, but you never run into him. Even after school, you go to hunt him down at his locker, and he's not there. So you pack your backpack and mount your bicycle, as usual. As you're nearing his house, you spot him up ahead on the side of the road, slowly trekking his way up the slight incline. Pedaling faster, you pick up the pace, gaining ground. You're pretty sure he's pretending not to hear you, but you let him, since you're busy planning out your highly rare and highly dangerous 180 reacharound combo.

Just as you pass him, you release one handlebar, yanking the hat off of your head and fitting it perfectly onto his. Continuing forward silently, you grin wildly into the April breeze. Moments later, you look back over your shoulder and see him remove the white baseball cap. He only takes a second to appraise the green ghost decal on the front before placing it back on his head proudly, matting down his flyaway hair. You just smile and look forward again, taking the next right to return to your apartment.


	19. Day 19 - Bunny (Not Put Back in a Box)

**Author's Note: I'm a piece of shit I'm so sorry. Thanks to ArlkatThePillowfighter for this super cute idea! Disclaimer – I definitely don't know how to handle rabbits properly. You probably have to put them in some sort of container when you buy one? Dunno.**

The final bell jolts you from your reverie. You regain your thoughts and spring from your seat, stuffing books and papers into your backpack and bolting out the classroom door. In just a few moments, you're at your locker, organizing your things and slamming it shut. You have to avoid John this afternoon. Seeing him before you arrive at his house would ruin the surprise.

Bursting out the front door, you approach the bike rack with your backpack still slung over one shoulder. You shrug it on properly before straddling your bicycle and pushing off the sidewalk into the street. Your destination is somewhat of a mystery to you, since you've never been there and you got your directions from Google Maps. Thankfully, you arrive there in good time, and lean your ride against a brick wall.

When you push open the glass door, a bell jingles cheerfully. A worker in a red button-down and a ponytail waves at you from behind a cash register. "Welcome to PetCo, how can I help you?" You scan the store before turning back to her.

"Rabbits?" you ask vaguely. She points toward a sign near the back of the store reading _Rodents. _Nodding at her gratefully, you make your way down the aisles, stopping to gaze at beta fish and parakeets. Finally, you find the rabbits, cuddled together in a small cage wedged between the mice and the guinea pigs. There are four: two white, one brown, and one black. The black one looks the fluffiest, so you tap on the glass next to its face. Its ears perk up, and it opens two big blue eyes that match John's almost perfectly. You can feel your heart melting.

The employee that waved at you earlier helps you lift it out of the cage. You stroke it as you hold it in your arms and walk toward checkout. When you have to get your credit card out of your backpack, you let it down onto the counter, where it hops around and little and sniffs at a container of pens disguised as flowers. Once it's paid for, you gather it back into your arms and smile at the cashier before heading back out into the bright sunlight. You deposit the little guy into the basket at the front of the bike, where it peeks its eyes over the edges.

The rabbit behaves relatively well during the ride. A few times he places a paw on the rim of the basket, and you have to gently push him back down for fear he jump out. Overall he seems to be a calm little fellow, and you're glad you picked him. Dismounting your bicycle and handling the rabbit at the same time proves to be a challenge, especially considering how anxious you are to show John his new present. You make it up the steps, but the door opens before you can begin to contemplate how to knock with a rabbit in your arms.

John's gaze slides from your eyes to the animal in your arms. His mouth drops open as he makes an adorable squeaking noise, instinctively reaching for the rabbit. You open your arms, allowing it to hop into his. He drowns it in attention, stroking its soft fur and making little cooing noises. He even gasps when he sees its bright eyes. You have never been so jealous of a rabbit.

"You know, I have pretty cool eyes, too," you huff, crossing your arms and smirking. John glances up for a fraction of a second.

"You never let me see them," he retaliates, shifting the rabbit in his arms and playing with its delicate ears. You bite your lip. He's got you there. John laughs.

"What?" you demand defensively.

"My dad. I don't know if he's even going to let me keep him," he explains. You begin to panic. John must recognize the stricken look on your face, because he quickly adds, "But I'm sure he will. C'mon, let's go ask." He steps aside, allowing you to open the door and hold it open for him. And off you two go into the house, on your way to convince Dad Egbert to go along with your wild shenanigans, just like old times.


	20. Day 20 - Eyes

**Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! Keeps me going.**

Despite a desperate desire to stay snuggled beneath your covers, you rise with the sun. Breakfast consists of two pieces of toast which you butter haphazardly. Then it's out the door you go, sunglasses skewed on your face and backpack flung over one shoulder.

The sunrise that greets you is magnificent: strong oranges bleeding into bright yellows, dotted with clouds highlighted in soft pinks and purples. You keep your eyes up as you mount your trusty bike and take off, watching the colors slowly give way to a baby blue sky.

There's another hue on your mind this morning. Red. You subconsciously adjust your shades on your face. It's not that you don't think your eyes are cool. Heck, they're hella rad. But other people think they're freakish. You don't know if John feels the same way, as he hasn't had so much as a glimpse in years.

His offhanded comment yesterday afternoon shook you. You're not sure what made you choose his present for today. Maybe you want him to think your eyes are just as cool as that stupid rabbit's (okay, fine, it's not stupid…you can't stay mad at cute, fluffy animals, especially if they remind you of John). Or maybe you just want to make it clear to John that he has you, if he wants you, from the top of your styled hair to the tips of your red converse. And that includes your eyes, no matter how uncomfortable you are when exposing them to the world.

Through some magical coincidence, you arrive at John's house just as he's pulling the front door shut and stepping out onto the stoop. He pauses when he sees you, eventually breaking into a friendly grin. You're reminded that today is the last day of your anticipated Stage 4: Acceptance, and that tomorrow commences Stage 5. You hope you were right when you titled it "Interest."

John reaches you, still balanced on your bike with one foot on the pavement. He stands on the curb and bounces up and down on the balls of his feet when he greets you. You're happy to see that he hasn't lost that childlike habit. He also still grips the straps on his backpack with both hands, in an action quite reminiscent of an anime schoolgirl. You laugh.

"What?" John asks, walking alongside you as you begin to pedal back down the street. You assure him it's nothing as you make a right onto the next suburban road. You're impressed when John is able keep pace. Then again, you suppose walking to school every day gives one good legs. You find yourself thinking about John's legs, and force yourself to focus.

"So…no present today?" John asks sheepishly, looking up at you and smiling.

"You better watch your mouth there, Egbert," you warn, smirking. "I'm beginning to think you only tolerate me for my gracious gifts." John turns a remarkable shade of pink.

"That's not what I meant!" he exclaims. You reach over and ruffle his hair lightly before he gets too agitated.

"What'd you name that rabbit, anyway?" you ask, to dispel any tension. Yesterday afternoon, John's father had begrudgingly allowed the rabbit to be kept in the house, as long as John found it a cage and supplies the very next day. You were suitably relieved, and you and John agreed to hit the pet store after school.

John purses his lips thoughtfully. "I haven't decided yet. I was thinking Liv Tyler." You smile.

"Of course you were." Gradually, you slow the bike, bringing it for to a complete halt. John glances over at you questioningly. You bite your lip. "So, honestly, I did bring a present you today." He seems to sense something is wrong, and tilts his head to the side in an extraordinarily John-ish sort of way. "You mentioned yesterday that I never let you see my eyes," you continue, reaching for your shades. "So, I thought…"

Lightning-quick, John's hand catches your wrist and steadies it. "Dave," he says slowly. "You know you don't have to do this. Not if you don't want to, or it makes you uncomfortable." His smile is heartening. "I would never want you to do something you didn't want to do."

In that moment, you're thoroughly convinced you picked the right guy. You beam, catching him in an awkward hug from your position balanced on the bike seat. "I know, John. It's okay." You feel him smile into your shoulder. "I guess it would make me happy," you admit. He nods and steps away, allowing you to remove your sunglasses and tuck them into your sweatshirt pocket. John gasps a little and steps closer, peering into your eyes like they're the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. And you gotta admit, they _are_ pretty damn cool.

"Dave, they're gorgeous," he breathes as his own eyes sparkle. You bite back a grin and take off pedaling again. John has to jog a little to keep up. Sunlight breaks through the trees, dappling the pavement with a soft glow. The world (and the boy beside you) are so beautiful in brighter colors, as opposed to the muted hues you usually see in, that you decide to keep your eyes uncovered for the rest of the ride to school.

"Hey," you mention after a considerable pause. "Are we still on for the pet store after school?" John smiles, his eyes on the sidewalk.

"Definitely."


	21. Day 21 - Dancing

**Author's Note: The chapters should be longer from now on (except for the next one). We are already full speed ahead on the Date Train. It can't be stopped.**

Friday, and you have yet another errand to run after school. This might be the most elaborate stunt you've ever pulled, but you view it as a challenge. You've been to the tux rental before. Bro was never down with buying you new suits every time Homecoming or Prom rolled around, so the town's tux rental shop became his favorite thrift store, so to speak.

It's a pretty nice place, all things considered. You roll your bike into the rack outside the white-washed store front and push open the glass door. A mechanical bell noise sounds. The old man behind the counter waves at you and smiles.

"David," he greets warmly, "It's been a while. You've grown!" He laughs, throwing his arms out in a wide gesture. "Let me look at you." He approaches, clapping your upper arms with his hands and appraising your face. "It's a bit early for Prom season, don't you think?" he guffaws and steps back. "What can I do you for?"

You explain that you're looking for two suits, a little classier than usual. He gives you a look. "Got yourself a boyfriend?" he asks, chortling and moving toward the back of the store. You follow, a bit shocked. Eventually, you find your voice.

"Um, not quite yet. I'm working on it," you clarify bashfully. The old man shrugs, patting you on the back. It occurs to you that you've never bothered to remember his name. You're a little too embarrassed to ask, so you let him lead you to a rack containing exactly what you're looking for. Unfortunately, it doesn't quite fit your price range, even to rent. The man must see you cringe when you check the price tags, because he whips the hangers off their racks and takes them up to the front of the store. You follow in confusion.

"Here's the thing," he says, ringing the suits up. "If you don't tell my supervisor, I'll strike you a deal. How long do you need them? Can you return them by Sunday afternoon?" You nod vigorously, and he rings the ensembles up for a significantly discounted price. You are floored, and thank him profusely before rushing out, two outfits in tow.

You're careful to drape your items over the handlebars and pedal slowly. When you arrive at your apartment complex, you vault up the stairs. It's already almost five o' clock, and you want to be sure to arrive at John's no later than six. You hurriedly get dressed and tame your hair. By the time you're ready, you still have plenty of time, so you step into Bro's room (which is, thankfully, unoccupied) and consider your image in the full-length mirror.

It's a shock to see your blond hair, usually slightly unruly, so slicked back. Your aviators are clean and clear of smudges. A pressed red tie loops under the collar of a white dress shirt, which is covered with a light grey vest. You shrug on a black blazer, leaving it open to expose the tie and vest. The blazer matches your creased pants perfectly, and you've polished your dress shoes to perfection. Satisfied with your reflection, you head out.

Mounting your bike is quite the ordeal. You're wearing very nice clothes, and you have very nice cargo. You quite literally can't afford for anything to get dirty.

You pull up to John's house at exactly six. Instead of leaning your bike on the curb, you actually walk it up to his front door. Like a true gentleman, you carefully press one finger into the doorbell, and tuck it behind your back afterwards. The second suit is draped delicately over one arm, and your bike is propped against your hips.

John answers the door almost immediately, stopping in his tracks when he sees you. His face turns a marvelous shade of crimson, and you take advantage of his stunned silence, holding his suit out to him. "Get dressed," you say smoothly. "We're going dancing."

He stands there staring for a few moments, and then regains some composure. "Do…you want to come in?" he offers, stuttering. You smirk, relishing in the feeling of causing him to be so taken aback.

"No," you refuse simply, leaning casually against your bike. "I'll wait out here."

With a quiet and surprised, "oh," John disappears into the house. Only minutes later, he returns, looking stunning. You let your gaze travel up and down his body. He sports a white suit, complete with a black vest and a bright blue bowtie. It fits him well. When you look back at his face, he's timidly avoiding your eyes. Dad Egbert appears behind him, a menacing fatherly force in the doorframe.

"How long will you be gone?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at your getup.

"Oh, I'll have him back well before sunrise, don't you worry, sir," you quip, turning to stride back toward the street. You're surprised to see that John is right beside you. Looking back over your shoulder, you catch Mr. Egbert closing the door, a slight smile on his face.

You cannot believe you just got away with that.

When you reach the road, you mount your bicycle. John stands awkwardly on the curb, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. You grin, looking him right in the eyes. "Are you getting on?" John takes a moment to realize your meaning, but when he does, a blush rises once more to his face. He straddles the seat carefully, and when he wraps his arms around your waist, you applaud yourself on correctly predicting Stage 5 to be Interest. Smirking, you push off. The bike wobbles a little with the added weight, but once you pick up the speed you're able to glide along easily.

"So…where are we going?" whispers a timid voice. His breath brushes lightly over your ear. You shiver.

"There's this hella rad place downtown. On Friday nights, they split the floor."

"What does that mean?" John asks curiously.

"It means that we can slow dance until nine, and then critique the DJ until midnight," you explain in cryptic tone. John doesn't ask any more questions. You talk suits and ties for ten minutes, until you pull up in front of a place called _Cherubs._

With your pre-ordered tickets, you get in easily, after the doorman waves you in and offers to leave your bike in the coatroom. You agree, grabbing John's hand and pulling him through the double doors into the ballroom. Your fingers are still intertwined when John stops in his tracks, gazing out over all the couples gracing the room. A particularly energetic swing dance is currently playing, and couples float across the wood-paneled dance floor. When it ends, they stop and turn toward the band, applauding enthusiastically. All the women wear dresses that sweep the floor, falling in layers and ripples of fabric. The men command attention in perfectly tailored suits with tails and impeccably knotted ties.

Beside you, John laughs. "I almost feel underdressed," he notes. You give him a sideways glance.

"You'll feel _over_dressed later, trust me," you assure him, guiding him onto the dance floor. Just as the next song starts, which turns out to be a classic foxtrot, you direct his left hand to your shoulder. You grab his right hand with your left, and put your other hand on the small of his back. Both of you attended ballroom dancing lessons in junior high (ironically, of course), so you sashay effortlessly across the floor. You insisted on leading (because you're obviously the Dom in this relationship), and John clearly isn't used to following. He picks it up quickly, however.

The dances pass, each one different. There's some waltzes, a few more foxtrots, lots of swing dancing. Your conversations and light and breezy, and you can tell that you're both having a lot of fun. The lights dim as the hours pass, and soon it's going on nine.

"One more dance?" you ask, kind of breathlessly. John nods and takes your hand, but when the song comes on, it's excruciatingly slow. You look around at the couples around you. All the women have their hands looped around their partner's necks. John quickly takes your waist.

"Uh-uh-uh," you admonish, waggling a finger and raising his arms. John sighs and clasps his hands together at the nape of your neck. You smile and rest your hands on his waist, pulling him closer. John looks up at your face, but when he realizes how close you are, he averts his gaze self-consciously.

"John, look at me, will you?" you ask lightly. He forces himself to turn back towards you. It's hard to make out his facial features in the hazy lighting, so you begrudgingly remove your shades and tuck them into the pocket of your slacks. John watches, looking like an angel in his white suit. "We had fun tonight, yeah?" you say slowly when your glasses are secure.

Your partner nods, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Thanks, Dave." He leans forward and rests his head on your chest. His hair tickles your chin. "For everything."

You're speechless. "Anytime," you manage. The song crawls to a quiet end, and the loud applause kills the moment a little, to be honest. You like ballroom dancing and all, but you can just barely hear the pumping bass music in the next room over, and when you glance across, colorful light spills out onto the paneled wood from underneath the door.

"What do you say we really dance?" you ask brazenly. John grins, and this time, he's the one to grasp your hand and pull you along. When you reach the door, John yanks it open and pushes you through in one swift motion, closing it quickly behind him so as not to disturb to ballroom dancers. And with good reason. The second the door opens, your senses are assaulted. Bright lights in every color twist and turn from the DJ's station, splashing spinning shapes and patterns onto every surface. The music is turned up full volume, transitioning smoothly from one pop song to another. You and John wander over to a table near the refreshments, pulling out two chairs and plopping down. Secretly, you're exhausted. But watching the excitement shine on John's face keeps you going. You're just about to suggest a snack break when a new song comes on.

"I love this song!" John squeals, as if a child. His enthusiasm is infectious, and you find yourself on your feet, dramatically whipping off your black jacket and draping it over a chair. John giggles, doing the same. You loosen your tie and roll up your sleeves, just in time to follow him onto the dance floor.

It really is a mosh pit in there. The target audience is clearly a much younger group than the ballroom dancers. Young adults and teenagers in all sorts of clothing jump up and down, pumping their fists is the air. One (probably underage) girl in a tight black dress grinds shamelessly against her date. A group of friends in jean shorts and t-shirts dance goofily on the outskirts of the main mosh pit. John stops nearby them, avoiding the Pull of the Pit, as you like to call it. He starts to mimic some old-timey moves, doing the Sprinkler, the Shopping Cart, and more. You'd like to roll your eyes at how ridiculous he looks, but the loud music invades your ears and your brain, filling you with addictive blissfulness.

Moments later, you're dancing next to John, probably looking dumb as shit. For once in your life, though, you don't really care if people think you're weird. That's what's amazing about John. He just doesn't mind. You wear your shades for two reasons: 1) John gave them to you, and 2) they hide your eyes. But any flaws John has, he bears them to the world and dares it to challenge him. He accepts himself as the nerdy, bizarre geek he is. With your shades in your pocket and your eyes exposed, you begin to feel the same way. It's not like anyone's paying attention to anyone else. And even if they were, what do you care? You're doing Cat Eyes with the most adorable guy on Earth.

The flashing lights and pumping bass slowly pollute your mind, pulling you in. It's intoxicating, and you and John soon find yourselves submitting to the Pull of the Pit, jumping up and down in time with the beat. There are bodies everywhere, and it kind of smells, but John's laughing. You're not sure how much time passes, but it doesn't really matter, because whenever John breaks down in giggles, you can't help but do the same.


	22. Day 22 - Little More than a Peck

**Author's Note: To morbidGenocide, who asked when they would kiss: you're welcome. Kind of. (Psst, also, thanks for 100 followers!)  
**

It's well after midnight when you and John stumble from the dance floor and collapse into your seats. You're both breathing heavily, and are in various stages of undress. Personally, your shirt is untucked with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and an unbuttoned collar. You discarded your tie and vest on top of your jacket about an hour ago. John is in a similar state, which allows you to appreciate how his dress shirt hugs his chest.

With some effort, you stand, crossing over to the refreshments table and returning with two cups of water. John takes one happily, chugging its contents. After hours of dancing, the cool liquid feels heavenly rushing down your parched throat.

Together, you and John decide to take a few more minutes to catch your breath before standing and beginning to put yourselves back together. You need to look presentable enough to exit through the ballroom dancing room, but neither of you really care that much. In the end, you button your vest and do your tie loosely, leaving your jacket open. John tucks his bowtie into his coat pocket, and you head out.

The beat is still pounding in your ears when you leave, but you're exhausted enough to be relieved when the door shuts behind you. The ballroom dancing has more or less come to an end, with the light strains of a slow ballad drifting across the floor. There are only a few couples left, so you and John are able to slip out without bothering anyone. The doorman (or bouncer, or whatever) retrieves your bike from the coatroom, so you thank him and bid him a good night.

"More like good morning," John jokes, glancing at his watch as you step out into the cool night air. A woman in a red dress sits on a wooden bench right outside, one arm flung over the back of the bench while her other hand delicately raises a cigarette to her face. Cars fly by, casting fleeting circles of light on the pavement and splashing water onto the sidewalk.

You walk along quietly for a few minutes, wheeling your bicycle at your left side. John is at your right, skipping along happily, a silly little grin on his face. He hums a little, and you join in, because when John is really, truly enjoying himself, it's easy to feel the same way.

There's no pressing urge to get home right away, so when John begs to stop for a while and watch the stars, you relent. He beams, taking your bike from you and balancing it carefully against the brick wall of a café you're passing. You lean back, pressing your back and the bottom of one foot to the hard surface. John does the same, his flyaway hair flattening itself against the wall.

He starts to whistle cheerfully, looking up at the night sky. You try to relax and enjoy yourself, but despite your fatigue, the sense of freedom that comes from being out at night with your best friend is invigorating. You glance over at John, taking in his silhouetted profile. The slope of his nose, the light in his eyes; it's all so perfect. It becomes hard to resist leaning over and capturing his lips in a kiss.

And when you're tired, it's so very difficult to resist much of anything.

John is very clearly shocked when he feels you pressing him back into the brick wall, but something causes him to let his eyes flutter closed. He places his hands on your waist, and to your astonishment, begins to return to kiss. You're more than a little surprised, to be honest, but it's just so wonderful that you don't think to question it. Moments later, John grips your tie and tugs on it, pulling you closer, and can you just say how fucking sexy that is?

So fucking sexy, in fact, that when he suddenly freezes up, you don't notice. Not until he shrinks away from you and quietly murmurs, "stop."

Per John's request, you step back immediately, examining his face. He looks embarrassed and conflicted, but most of all, he looks confused. Keeping his eyes downcast, he pushes off from the wall, slipping past you and continuing down the sidewalk. You snatch up your bike and roll it toward him, taking long steps until you pull up at his side.

"John, I'm sorry," you blurt, because it's the only phrase, of all those rushing through your head, that seems appropriate to vocalize. He shakes his head slowly.

"No, I'm sorry," he replies softly, voice cracking a bit like he's about to cry. You feel absolutely terrible, consumed with a deep sense of guilt. John was having such a great time, and it's unmistakably your fault for ruining it. You're also horribly confused. You were sure that John was kissing you back, so why is he upset? Yet it remains undoubtable that it was the kiss that caused his distress.

Unfortunately, John doesn't offer any explanation for the entire walk home. It's a long and awkward journey. He stops when you reach his house, facing you, but not speaking or meeting your eyes.

"I'll come pick up the suit tomorrow," is all you can think to say. John nods somberly and turns away, dragging his feet a little as he makes the trek up to his front door. You're reminded of how those same feet bounced eagerly on the curb earlier that night, and are struck with just how different those two images are.

You watch him wrench open the door and close it behind him before straddling your bike and starting home. Up until the last part of the night, you were sure that today's surprise had been a complete success. Great outfits, great dancing, and a lot of fun.

So why do you feel like such a failure?


	23. Day 23 - Serenade

**Author's Note: So obviously, I failed my NaNoWriMo goal. But I did write, like 7 chapters, so that's certainly better than nothing. Hopefully I'll be done by the New Year (*laughs bitterly*). Eternal thanks to ArlkatThePillowfighter for a plethora of ideas that I will be using in some upcoming chapters, including this one. Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. My excuse: finals. Hopefully I'll get a lot done over holiday break.**

Sunday morning finds you sitting upright on your mattress, furiously strumming away on your acoustic guitar. Your computer sits open in front of you, displaying a page of chord progressions. Training your eyes on the tiny letters on the screen, your left hands flies up and down the neck of the old instrument.

"C," you mutter, squinting at your laptop." "G…F…D." You trail off, letting your hands fall from their positions braced against the guitar. You've already been practicing for about an hour, not counting the time you spent choosing the perfect song. Thankfully, you found one that sounds exactly the way you want it to. It's fast-paced, but not too speedy; sweet, but not too saccharine; modern, but not too preppy; simple, but not too flat. You love it. You hope John will too.

After another hour of practice, the deep tones of your guitar mixing harmoniously with the melodic ease of your voice, you slide the instrument into its case and strap it across your back. The flat side of the guitar bumps uncomfortably against your shoulder blades, so you lean forward into the handlebars for the ride over to John's house.

He answers the door when you ring the bell for the third time, tapping his fingers against the knob. Leveling you with his silent gaze for a moment, he steps aside, allowing you into the foyer. "The suits are upstairs," he says after a moment, closing the door behind you. "I'll go get them." He starts up the stairs. You follow him despite his reluctance.

"I'll come," you insist, padding up the carpeted stairs behind him. He sighs, continuing ahead across the landing to push open the door to his room. You enter after him and let the door swing shut. While John crosses to his closet and starts shifting through various shirts and slacks to find the suits, which are organized impeccably on their hangers, you swing your guitar from your shoulder and remove it from its case. By the time John turns back around with the suits over one arm, you are already sitting cross-legged on his bed, guitar in hand.

John opens and closes his mouth, finally relenting and hanging the suits back up as you begin to play the first chords of Train's _Drops of Jupiter_. You think you see the flash of a smile across John's cheek as he recognizes the intro. He closes the closet doors once more and joins you on the mattress, one leg tucked underneath him and the other foot brushing against the floor. You lengthen the chords until he's settled, and once he is, you begin to sing.

"_Now that he's back in the atmosphere with drops of Jupiter in his hair." _John suppresses a grin, bowing his head to inspect his fingernails. You fight back a laugh and forge on.

"_He acts like summer and walks like rain, reminds me that there's a time to change."_ A blush begins to rise to John's cheeks. You try to catch his eye, but he's focusing very fixedly on a particularly stubborn hangnail.

"_Since the return from his stay on the moon, he listens like spring and he talks like June." _The lyrics describe John so well, not even in a way you can fully explain. They seem to encapsulate his youth, his freedom, his search for something that may not even quite exist yet. John seems to be tracking your train of thought, still blushing lightly. You smirk as you launch into the chorus.

"_But tell me, did you sail across the sun? Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded, and that heaven is overrated? Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star, one without a permanent scar?"_ You pause for an infinitesimal moment, fingers pressing the strings firmly against the guitar's neck. _"And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?"_

The strumming fades into some light transitional chords as you swallow and take some deep breaths, preparing yourself for the pickup. John sits attentively on the bed, stiff like a statue. Instinctively, you shift your position, leaning into him. He chuckles gently and relaxes as you brace yourself against his shoulder and pluck a few strings individually before flowing into the second verse.

"_Now that he's back from that soul vacation, tracing his way through the constellation. He checks out Mozart while he does tae-bo, reminds me that there's room to grow."_ The tempo abruptly accelerates, as does the beat of your heart as John's hand brushes against your elbow. _"Now that he's back in the atmosphere, I'm afraid that he might think of me as…plain ol' Dave told a story about a man who was too afraid to fly so he never did land."_

The chords grow more swift and tumultuous, and your fingers struggle to keep up as the words spill from between your lips and the music swells. _"But tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet? Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day, and head back to the Milky Way? And tell me, did Venus blow your mind?" _You smile through the lyrics. _"Was it everything you wanted to find? And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?"_

While you transition to the bridge, you feel John shift below you. The quivering echo of the guitar loiters in the air for a moment. When you allow yourself a sharp intake of breath before you resume, you hear John take it with you, and all at once you're singing a duet.

"_Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken? Your best friend always sticking up for you."_ You snicker. _"Even when I know you're wrong. Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance, five-hour phone conversation? The best soy latte that you ever had and…" _

All the breath is wrenched from your lungs as John's arms come to rest around you.

"_Me."_

There is a lengthy, drawn-out pause. You fight off the haze clouding around your senses, and sit up abruptly, trying to maintain the dignity you have left. John grins mischievously and wraps his arms around his own knees instead, watching you intently.

"_But tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet? Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day, and head back toward the Milky Way?"_ You start off hesitantly, now that you're singing alone again, each strident chord seeming more poignant than the last. After a few lines, your heartbeat slows again, and your singing becomes less strained and more confident.

"_And tell me, did you sail across the sun? Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded, and that heaven is overrated? And tell me, did you fall for a shooting star? One without a permanent scar?"_ You're beaming like a madman, trying to avoid catching John's gaze in your periphery. _"And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself?"_

The last twangs of the final chord fade into a tense silence. You untangle the guitar's strap from around your body and go to work sliding the instrument back into its case. John's eyes are drilling into the back of your skull, and you can feel it. Just as everything is all zipped up, his hands slip under your arms and slide across your chest. Your breath hitches as he rests his chin on your shoulder and makes a small noise of contentment.

"Thanks, Dave," he says in a whisper. "That was beautiful."

You sit there with him, unmoving, for a long time.


	24. Day 24 - Movie Night

**Author's Note: I don't even need to write an Author's Note for this chapter. I just like making them. Gets me ready to write, ya know? Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback and reviews. I was particularly ecstatic with the response to the previous chapter. Y'all are so sweet.**

The new school week hits you hard like a brick to the chest, knocking the wind out of you in surprise. You'd almost completely neglected to do your homework, so between the first and final bell, you're as lost with an Egbert without his glasses.

After school, you head straight home. And you stay there. At around 5 o' clock, John texts you.

_Hey there. You alright?_

Chuckling, you refuse to answer, instead continuing your preparations for tonight's surprise. It's going to be glorious, and you don't want to spoil it. Also, it's fun to keep John on his toes. So you wait until late at night you pack everything into a messenger bag and ride over to his house. Tonight, you wheel your bike up to his front door, expecting to be inside for quite a while.

John answers the door breathlessly, throwing his arms around you. Grinning mischievously into his shoulder, you pretend to be knocked off balance.

"Whoa!" you exclaim, stumbling backwards. John starts to scream just as you catch yourself and shrug him off of you. "Haha, what's your deal, Egbert?"

"Dave!" John complains, hands on his hips in an extraordinarily Rose-like gesture. "I was so worried! I texted you, like, 5 times!"

"Yeah, yeah," you wave him off, brushing past him and pausing at the threshold. "Can I come in?" John nods you through, and together you manage to wrestle your bike into the foyer and prop it against a wall.

"To the living room!" you announce, brandishing your messenger bag in the air. John trails after you with a questioning look.

"Dave, what –" You cut him off by wheeling on him, whipping a DVD case from your bag. John sputters as you toss it to him, catching it precariously and clutching it to his chest. After a moment, as you're revealing two classic red-and-white striped bags of popcorn, he takes a glance downwards.

"National Treasure?" he asks, posing the question like he's concerned it's a joke and really doesn't want it to be. You smile.

"One _and_ two," you clarify, poking the thick DVD case with one finger. "John, we're going to have a National Treasure movie marathon." You pause, adopting a teasing, paternal tone. "If you don't have too much homework, that is."

The grin that lights up John's face sends a thrill down your spine.

"Screw homework!" he announces with bravado, making a show of jumping over the back of the couch and landing in a heap on the soft cushions. Mimicking him, you beam as you rush to flick off the lights, and then collapse on the sofa to his right.

"That's the spirit," you say, bounding up for a moment to pop in the first DVD and distribute the bags of popcorn.

The entirety of the first film passes without significance. John sits there laughing with his legs bent against his chest and his chin on his knees, amused by the antics of Nic Cage and co. Just the same, you are amused by _his_ antics, casting sideways glances at his expressions and gestures as he explains the convoluted plot.

By the time the credits are rolling, you've begun to notice John throwing stealthy glimpses at you, too. When you return to the couch after ejecting the first DVD and sliding in the second, you find John cozied up against your shoulder. You smile, running your fingers through his flyaway hair as the sequel begins with a flair of dramatic music.

The entire plot of the second movie eludes you. You're staring at John the entire time, busy examining his artistically rendered profile and the way the screen's luster in the dark likes to highlight his raven black hair in vibrant blues, reds, yellows, and greens.

He's absolutely gorgeous, you realize. Of course, you knew that before, but the full force of his splendor hadn't hit you square in the face until now. And when the movie ends with a bang and he curls up against you, dozing in and out of consciousness, you realize something else.

You're so goddamn close. You can't afford to fuck this up.


	25. Day 25 - Book

**Author's Note: Aaaaaaand the fic continues into the New Year. Who knew? I certainly didn't (yes I did I'm a lazy ass I'm so so so sorry).**

Your dreams are tumultuous and fleeting, leaving you with the inexplicable sensation of reaching for something when you wake with a start. That is how you find yourself padding into the bathroom at four a.m. to splash lukewarm water on your face. You raise your heavy head to examine your own crimson irises in the mirror, tiny droplets falling from your eyelashes. The image strikes you as shockingly poignant. You inspect the deep creases under your eyes, the curve of your shoulders and sharpness of your collarbone.

You shake your head doggedly as you stumble back to bed in the dark and fall into an uneasy sleep.

Three hours later, your alarm clock rouses you with its relentless shriek. "Son of a bitch," you mutter into your pillow as you knock the machine to the floor with a sweep of the hand. It continues to howl, slightly muffled now with its speaker pressed into the carpet. Groaning, you wrestle with the blankets and swing your feet off the side of the mattress.

A string of curses spills from between your lips as you wrangle the infernal device into submission. Even after it has been quieted, the echo of its incessant cry rings in your ears.

As foreshadowed by your restless night, the school day is enduring and unbearable. Fatigue from last night's movie marathon hits you with full force around lunchtime, and you start to vaguely regret finally falling into bed at two o' clock in the morning. You thank your lucky stars that you already have today's gift planned out, because you're not up for too much high-level thinking in this state (something that you pay dearly for in Calculus).

The only interesting thing that happens all day occurs just before last period, when John spots you at your locker, exchanging your books for the next class. "Hey, Dave!" he shouts from down the hall, waving to capture your attention. As he jogs up to you, you turn expectantly. However, he says nothing, but instead just stands in front of you with his mouth half open. "What?" you prompt him, but your voice comes out harsh and abrasive in your anticipation. John doesn't seem to notice.

"Nothing," he blurts eventually. "See you later!" And he runs off. You stare after him as you shut your locker absentmindedly and shoulder your bookbag.

After school, it's back to your apartment. You would have liked to bring today's gift to school, but it was too heavy. When you quit your apartment with a large tome under one arm, the atmosphere is balmy and thick. It feels like walking underwater as you wade your way to your bicycle and push off through the dense air.

John is waiting for you on his front stoop, pushing a pebble around on the concrete with the tip of his sneaker. When he spots you coasting to a halt at the curb, he stands slowly, shoving his fists into the wide pockets of his cargo shorts.

"Hey, Dave?" he says, mimicking your bizarre confrontation at school. It sounds like a question, so you reply.

"Yeah?"

He pauses, then snickers, averting his eyes. "No, hey Dave. Like, hey."

You tilt your head slightly, raising your eyebrows and examining his facial expression out of the corner of your eyes. "Hey." Chuckling, you shake it off, and produce today's present from behind your back. John reaches out to take it, but miscalculates its weight. When it shifts from your hands to his, he almost stumbles under its girth.

He catches himself in time, straightening his spine and hoisting the tome into the crook of his arm. "What is it?" he asks, letting his fingertips drift over the raised gold print on the cover.

"It's a book," you offer. "A prank book."

John hums a noise of approval. "_Colonel Sassacre's Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery_," he murmurs aloud. Then his blue eyes go wide. "Dave," he gasps, "he was my grandfather!"

You're shocked. "Really?"

John goes deadpan, his face slackening. "No."

Almost stepping back in surprise, you let out a sound of disbelief. "Dick!" you groan, punching him in the upper arm. He very nearly falls over, and the sight of such a small boy struggling under the weight of such an oversized books is almost comical.

You find yourselves settling down on the front porch as John thanks you for the gift, and soon you fall into a languid conversation. The events of the day, gossip at school, Rose's ever-deepening relationship with Kanaya.

"We've come a long way, too," you note offhandedly, but you spy John becoming flustered in your periphery. The tome rests in his lap, and he begins to tap the front cover in a steady rhythm.

"Yeah," he breathes eventually, forcing a laugh. "What was your first gift, anyway?" he asks, posing the inquiry to the passing wind. "It was, um…"

"Roses," you interject.

"Roses!" John exclaims immediately, remembering. "Right." A pause.

"Did you like them?" you venture. "I thought they were very romantic."

"Of course!" he is quick to agree. "It's just…" John sighs, his words failing him.

"They're not your favorite?" you suggest. He shrugs, and you shift toward him. "What's your favorite, then?"

"My favorite flower?" John bites his lip in thought, mulling over the question. "I guess it's…Lily of the Valley."

"Lily of the Valley?" you repeat incredulously, snorting. After letting out a bark of a laugh, you realize he's serious. "Why?"

"I dunno," John mutters truthfully. "I suppose they're…delicate? In a way? Does that make sense?"

You turn your head to face him completely. In that moment, you take in John, made so small by the presence of a leviathan book on his lap. John, whose pale skin flushes so easily. John, whose hair ruffles so lightly in the breeze, whose heart you hold, balanced precariously on your palm.

"Yeah," you admit. "Yeah, it does."


	26. Day 26 - Picnic

**Author's Note: We're in the home stretch. Eternal thanks for all the support, and sorry for the wait! Maybe I'll finish this fic on its one year anniversary. How cool would that be?**

You don't see John at school that day. Well, that's not exactly true. You spot a tuft of dark hair disappearing around a corner after lunch, but he seems intent on going in the other direction, so you let him. You get the feeling he's avoiding you, but it's important to give him space, especially after all you've put him through this April.

Everything was prepared this morning, set neatly on the kitchen counter, awaiting your return from school. But that's not how you find it when you get back from class, barging through the front door and letting your backpack drop off your shoulder to the tiled floor. Bro stands leaning casually against the counter, twirling the handle of a picnic basket lazily on his long pointer finger. When you enter, he casts a sideways glance at you.

"What's this?" he drawls, smirking. "Is little Davie going on a _date_?"

A month ago, you might have blushed furiously, stuffed your hands into your pockets, and denied it. You might have told your brother to shut up, or stormed past him like a child, or engaged him in a strife over the ownership of the picnic basket. But today, you're proud of how far you've come, you're glad that you're getting along well with John, and you know that being in love is nothing to be ashamed of.

So you hold your head high, level him with your gaze, and say simply, "Yeah, actually." Bro doesn't move. "Right now," you clarify, stepping toward him. He remains as still as a statue, so you point at the basket. "And I need that." Finally, he holds his hand toward you, and you slip the handle off of his finger.

You turn away, collecting a red and white checkered blanket from the countertop, and Bro bursts into peals of laughter. "I'm proud of you, kid," he manages, approaching you from behind and ruffling your hair. You groan, bat his hands away, and straighten your 'do. Bro only chuckles and disappears into his bedroom, and you're left alone in the kitchen to gather your things and exit out the front door again.

Instead of screeching to a halt at the curb, you maneuver your bike onto the sidewalk and ride across the lawn up to the stoop, where John sits waiting. He keeps wiping the palms of his hands on his jeans. You dismount the bicycle dramatically, scooping up the picnic basket and presenting it to him in a low, sweeping bow. John takes it from you hesitantly.

"Hey, Dave?" he ventures as you recover, facing him once more.

"Yeah?"

John pauses, then: "No, like, hey. Dave." His voice is strained and awkward.

You're suitably confused, but you laugh anyway. "That's the second time, Egbert," you note. "Learn inflection. So!" you blurt, brusquely changing topics. "Today, I was thinking…" you nod toward the basket and produce the checkered blanket from the carrier on your bike. "A picnic?"

Minutes later, you're grinning from ear to ear as John lays his head on your shoulder, clinging desperately to your back. Squeezing together on the thin seat of the bicycle, you're not sure if you've ever felt closer to him. The picnic basket sways wildly, looped precariously over one of the handlebars. John has tied the blanket around his neck, and it flares out behind him like a cape as you coast down a hill.

It doesn't take too long to reach your destination, but you almost wish it had. The warmth of John's chest against your back disappears as he dismounts, dragging the blanket with him. Unfortunately, the "cape" catches on the spokes of one wheel, and the next second you're toppling over, flailing and crazed as you try to brace yourself against John. You grunt as your elbow takes the brunt of the fall, crashing at an awkward angle into the grass.

In a moment, John is buzzing about you with a worried look on his face, disentangling the cape and lifting the bike off of your legs. You groan and roll over, and you have to raise your hand to block the sun as you peer up into John's bright, concerned baby blues.

"Are you okay?" he demands, walking around your head and offering you his hand. You clasp it, and he yanks you from the ground with a surprising amount of force. Standing, you brush off the back of your jeans while John rights the bicycle and retrieves the picnic basket, which has begun to roll away.

You're standing at the top of a hill, just outside the city. From your vantage point, it's easy to make out the tall buildings downtown in the valley below. A single magnolia tree with drooping branches looms over you, pink petals just now breaking out of their soft green buds. While John admires the view, you compose yourself and spread out the blanket. The picnic basket sits untouched at the corner of the checkered spread, as neither of you are hungry.

Being able to converse for hours on end about the most mundane subjects is undoubtedly the best thing about being childhood friends. You and John arrange yourselves on the blanket and chat until the sun starts to set, casting brilliant orange hues across the landscape. Beautiful pink and purple clouds hang just over the horizon. Toward the east, however, a swirling gray mass approaches.

"Maybe we should start eating?" John suggests. You nod, and you both reach to open the picnic basket at the same time. Smiling, he releases the handle, allowing you to draw the basket into your lap and produce two plastic-wrapped chicken salad sandwiches, two bags of Doritos, four Cosmic Brownies, one peach iced tea, and two paper cups.

John gasps theatrically, snatching up one of the Cosmic Brownies and unwrapping it immediately. You laugh as he stuffs half of it into his mouth and colorful sprinkles go flying. Meanwhile, you divide the iced tea between the two cups and hand him one, which he uses to wash down the other half of the Brownie.

His love of Cosmic Brownies is rivaled only by your obsession with Doritos. You crack open a bag, and John grins widely at the expression of ecstasy on your face as you bite into a chip. Continuing to make idle conversation, you sit together and enjoy your picnic, content to just share each other's company.

When the food is gone – John ate more than his fair share of Cosmic Brownies – you begin to pack up the picnic basket while John folds the blanket. The dark clouds are now low and threatening overhead, so you move with haste, hurriedly collecting wrappers and stuffing them into the wicker container.

You turn to see John, still kneeling as he makes careful creases in the blanket. Impulsively, you move toward him, wrapping your arms around his chest. He starts against your unexpected touch, losing his balance and sending you both toppling to the ground. Surprised, you start to roll down the hill, John in close pursuit. At first, you try to scramble to a halt, but eventually you gain enough momentum that resistance is futile. Snowballing down the incline, you stretch your hands above your head while John tucks his arms against his chest.

When you reach the end of the hill, you slow to a standstill, laughing. John barrels into you, crushing the air out of your lungs with his weight and ending up on the other side of you, staring up at the sky. Light raindrops begin to fall, plopping on your sunglasses. One bead settles on John's neck, making him shiver and curl into you.

A deep rumbling can be heard, but no lightning strikes. Feeling safe, you drape an arm around John, the crook of your elbow fitting comfortably against his shoulder. You lie like that for a few minutes, eyes closed, until you feel John shift. One of his hands is reaching across his body, hovering over your face.

John taps your nose lightly with one finger. "Hey Dave?"

You giggle, then mentally facepalm. Striders don't giggle, even if they are totally head over heels. Bro would be ashamed. "Hey."

"No," he says abruptly. "It was a question. Like, hey, Dave?"

"Oh," you stutter, unsure. "Um…yeah?"

There is a long, drawn out pause.

"Um." John averts his gaze, taking the time to extract himself from your grip. He then straightens and wrings his hands together, looking just past you into the street at the bottom of the hill. You stand with him, and instinctively take his hands in yours. Finally he meets your gaze.

Just as he opens his mouth, you remember with a jolt: today is the 26th day. Meaning you've commenced Stage 6, titled _Reciprocation_. A loud buzzing creeps into your ears, blocking out the sound and making it impossible to hear what John says next. You drop your eyes down to his lips, where you watch his mouth form around the words…

_I love you._

It starts to rain. Hard.

You want to crush your lips into his, but the sudden shower takes you by surprise. A torrent of raindrops floods down in sheets. John immediately clings to you, already bearing a striking resemblance to a wet puppy. Gasping against the freezing onslaught, you pull him up the hill toward your bike. Water streams down your face from your flattened hair, dripping into your parted mouth. John starts to stumble, sending you both slipping and sliding down the slick slope.

Eventually, your struggle leads you to the zenith of the hill, where you snatch the picnic basket from the grass and throw it haphazardly over the handlebars as you mount the bicycle. John flings open the blanket, climbing on behind you and using it to shield both of your heads. The rain starts to patter furiously against the canvas, and soon it will be soaked through. But for just a moment, you and John are dry and alone under the blanket.

So you twist around on the seat, cup his chin in your hand, and kiss him.

And it is fucking great.


	27. Day 27 - Doppelgänger

**Author's Note: Well, I obviously overshot the one-year anniversary of this fic. And 4/13. My writer's block has lasted several months. I can't believe I've been struggling through this shitstorm for more than a year. That should be illegal. To be honest, I'm kind of sick of this plot, and I have a standing one-shot request from, like, July. But I am determined to finish this, and finish it well, for all 127 of you guys. You inspire me, and you're all so patient. I appreciate it.**

_Your bike sails down the street, flinging muddy water off to either side as you splash through massive puddles. John is laughing hysterically as he clings to your back, letting the picnic blanket billow out behind you. At one point, he tears it away and bundles it up between his chest and your spine. You cringe as the wet droplets barrel down, flattening your hair to your head. Looking ridiculous is pretty much a given at this point, but John is whooping and hollering and ripping your water-stained aviators from your face. Shocked, you almost careen the bike into a pothole. John just cackles gleefully, peering at you over your shoulder. His eyes are bright and blue behind his glasses, where beads of water pool and refract light like small galaxies._

You wake up loving John more than ever, because while you were worrying about keeping your clothes dry, he was enjoying nature's sharp proof of being alive. That's just the kind of person he is.

A smile creeps up on you as your push the covers aside and place your feet on the carpet. You remember now: after you came to an abrupt halt in front of John's house, he dismounted from the bike and came around to face you. He had a sort of giddy air about him as he took your cheeks in both hands and planted a sloppy kiss on your nose. Stunned, you waited silently as he slid your aviators back onto your face and draped the blanket around your shoulders.

The touch of John's lips still lingers on your skin. Incredible.

Every minute of the school day is torturous, and spotting John in the hallways is pure agony. You yearn with every fragment of your being to stride right up to him and kiss him for all the world to see. John teeters forward every time your eyes meet, as if he's thinking the same thing. But he never takes a step toward you. There are eyes everywhere.

For the first time, you wonder what it would mean to be out. Up until now, the goal has been to coax John into reciprocating your feelings. You didn't really think past that. To be honest, you weren't sure if you would make it this far.

During lunch, you bite numbly into a cold sandwich and think. There's only ever been one same-sex couple at this school, and that's Rose and Kanaya. Everyone always knew they were lesbians, though, and they were so perfect for each other it was only a matter of time. They're so fiercely determined to be together that even the assholes don't poke fun at their relationship. At least, not to their face. But no one outside of your friend group knows that you're gay, and not even John himself has figured out that he's bi. Being overtly affectionate in public would surely turn unwelcome heads.

In order to make it through the day alive, you push these thoughts out of your head. By the time you get home, you're already busy with plans for today's surprise. When you enter your room, you abandon your backpack and strip, flinging open your closet. A pair of khaki shorts and a blue t-shirt are folded neatly over a hanger. You try to pull the shirt over your head, but your aviators get in the way. Frustrated, you pluck them off and toss them onto your mattress. The shirt comes on, but the collar feels a bit tight around your neck. Next, you step into the shorts, but you end up hopping around and tripping over yourself in your rush.

Once you manage to get dressed, a pair of yellow converse strapped to your feet, you dart into the restroom and banish Bro from his post at the sink. He makes an incredulous noise around his toothbrush as you push him out the door. You lock it behind him and wrench open a cabinet, where you find a white plastic bag waiting patiently for you.

The largest of the three items in the bag is a tall can of black temporary hair spray. Shaking it methodically and taking a deep breath, you uncap it and spray until your hair is coated. You glance into the mirror at black-haired Dave and ruffle his mane so it sticks up at odd angles. Perfect.

Next, you extract a pair of bright blue contacts from your plastic bag. They itch at first when placed over your crimson irises, but you gradually get used to them. To avoid looking in the mirror too much just yet, you untangle a pair of thick, boxy glasses from the bag and slide them onto the bridge of your nose.

Finally, you raise your head and examine your reflection.

A burst of laughter escapes you. "I did so well, I'm almost attracted to myself," you muse, crumpling up the plastic bag and tossing it into the trash. You leave the spray can and the contacts' container in the cabinet as you head back to your own room.

Bro catches you in the hallway, toothbrush still dangling from between his lips like a cigarette. He holds you by both shoulders and looks you over before grunting noncommittally and pushing past you into the bathroom. You quickly duck back into your room to make sure you haven't forgotten anything. You're about to leave empty-handed, but you dig your phone out of your backpack as an afterthought and slip it into your pocket. As you exit through the kitchen, you call out, "Be back soon!" before shutting the front door behind you.

When you pull up to the curb outside of John's house, the curtains in living room window flutter with the touch of a hand. You drop the bike and sprint up to the front door, stumbling to a halt just before it swings open. John steps out a closes it behind him, and soon you're chest to chest. He cranes his neck up at you and bursts out laughing.

"Dave…what?" he gasps, pushing you back so he can get a better look. You direct a toothy grin back at him.

"Dave? Who is this Dave you speak of?" you inquire in a voice pitched higher than you usually speak. "My name is John Egbert." While John is doubled over, you stick out a hand for him to shake. Instead, he takes you by surprise, pulls you to him, and gives you a lingering kiss.

"So you're supposed to be me, huh?" he asks when he steps back, leaving you beaming like an idiot. He looks you over in quiet appraisal and nods appreciatively. "I didn't know I was so hot."

You take him by the hand a draw him closer to you. "The hottest," you smile. Seeing his blush, you laugh and push past him into the house. "And now, this hot guy is going to kick your hot ass at Mario Cart."

John scoffs. "Bring it on." He marches past you into the living room and starts hooking up the equipment. A remote is tossed in your direction. You catch it deftly, and when the character select screen appears, John chooses Yoshi and a Standard Kart, as usual. Your control hovers over Baby Peach, who gives a delighted cry when you fit her with a Bullet Bike. Snorting, John plops down next you on the couch.

"C'mon man," you protest. "Baby Peach is the shit."

After Yoshi totally bashes Baby Peach's tiny head in at Mushroom Gorge, Dad Egbert strolls casually into the room with an old-fashioned camera looped around his neck.

"Hello John," he says politely, nodding a head in his son's direction. Then he turns to greet you. "Doppelgänger John."

You play along. "Hello, sir. How are you this evening?" John groans at your shenanigans and plants his face into a cushion.

"Oh, I'm swell," Mr. Egbert replies. "Care for a photo, you two?"

With reluctance, John stumbles to his feet and joins you next to the fireplace. Looking down at him, you realize how much darker his skin is in comparison to yours. Your face is pale from springs and summers spent indoors, hiding away. His arms are tanned from afternoons spent outside with friends, summer camps that tested his talents. In a way, you think, John _is_ out. He's put himself out in the world, and he's comfortable with how others perceive him now. Who are you to ruin that?

You're not.

A moment of doubt casts a shadow over your face, and you have trouble mustering up a grin as Mr. Egbert raises the camera. After several rounds of pictures, he joins you two by the fireplace and takes what he calls a "family selfie." John is practically slumping over in embarrassment. Finally, he snatches the camera from his father and insists that he take some photos himself. In a moment, you are standing next to a warm fatherly figure in front of the stone fireplace, while John hurries across the room.

Both you and Mr. Egbert watch John laugh and chatter excitedly as he fumbles with the buttons. Mr. Egbert leans down imperceptibly just before John snaps a photo and whispers, "Thank you."

You can't help but smile for the camera.


End file.
